Something Not Hers

Who writes like that?

Not writes, exactly.

Who stands still enough
for the unseen
to pass through
without frightening it away?

There are songs
that feel made.

Hammered, fitted, polished,
walked around in daylight,
held up to see where the seams show.

And then there are songs
that arrive like weather
no village has ordered.

A little sky in the mouth.
A child’s brightness
turning, without warning,
into the face of age.

No thunder.
No trumpet.
No angel making a spectacle
of heaven.

Just a plain image
set down gently enough
that the soul does not notice
it has been opened.

How is this possible?

A woman sits somewhere
with a human hand,
a mortal pen,
a life that has bruised her
in the ordinary places.

And still—

something not hers
finds her hand.

Not to close the wound,
or lift her out of earth,
but to let the wound
sing without lying.

That is the miracle.

Not that beauty came from elsewhere,
but that it came through here:

through breath,
through memory,
through the ache
of having misunderstood
what once seemed obvious,

through the small, breakable instrument
of one living person
telling the truth
before she fully knows it.

Who writes like that?

Someone chosen, perhaps.

Or someone listening so completely
that choice and listening
become the same flame.

Someone who lets innocence
keep its blue dress on
even after sorrow enters the room.

Someone who knows
that wisdom is not certainty,
but tenderness
after the second seeing.

And maybe that is why
we call it divine.

Not because no human made it.

Because a human did.